


My Neighbor Niko

by Bunnysharks



Category: OneShot (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Flower Language, Gen, Gender-Neutral Niko, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is an incarnation of the Player/God but there's symbolism for that so shh, Reader's gender is not defined, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Some sad moments because that's life, babysitter reader, lots of soft Niko cuddles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:43:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnysharks/pseuds/Bunnysharks
Summary: As a very exasperated ex-musician-turned-starving-artist, you often faced difficulties trying to make ends meet. Fleeing the monotonous drone of the suburbs into a quaint, idyllic little town nestled deep in the countryside, one thing leads to another before snowballing into something else entirely, and you soon fall seamlessly into the role as caretaker of your neighbor’s child, Niko.Happiness comes in small packages, you learn with time, as Niko and their sunny radiance just may have been the inspiration you needed to not only mend your artistic slump, but fill your life with that much-needed bliss.





	1. The Color of the Wheat Fields

**Author's Note:**

> “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”  
> ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, "The Little Prince"

There was no possible way that the rent for that house was really _that_ cheap.

It was inconceivable.

You assumed off the bat that it’d been a typo or error on the publisher’s part, since you couldn’t find much else to justify the price. In complete disbelief, you rapidly flipped through the thin catalog stack to compare prices with the other ads listed, as if questioning the authenticity of what you’d read. Those particular housing advertisements were fairly new, too- maybe shoved haphazardly through the mail slot into the basket no less than a week ago.

Now normally, those were sent hurtling straight into the garbage with the rest of the junk mail. You had never expressed any legitimate interest in either house-hunting nor handling the stress of responsibility, especially the type that entailed from dabbling in something as demanding as real estate. Still didn’t, as a matter of fact, since it was difficult to care about a niche that disinterested you from almost every angle.

It was funny what desperation, a pinch of fear, and an insatiable, impulsive yearning for adventure had done to people, how the unsightliness of failure could send someone plummeting.

Bank notices, bills- you were bombarded by a ceaseless influx of necessary payments and debts you kept telling yourself you’d get around to. Cleaning up the wreckage that was your life and artistic career was so daunting to tackle that you inadvertently put off the process for months, which unsurprisingly, had worsened your already critical situation. The prolonged stagnancy and drop in activity had cost you, and all of that strenuous networking succumbed to being little more than a wasted effort.

You began compromising bits and pieces of the paychecks meant to cover food and living expenses to instead pay for new materials, even while the prices kept hiking. You dipped into funds with less and less restraint and forced yourself you paint, sketch- to create when you were withering amidst an artistic drought. The well had run dry long ago, but you pushed yourself for days, even weeks on end as if sheer effort alone could delay the inevitable. You’d pushed yourself so hard that in fact, your negligence and disinterest bled into your pieces, visually impacting your work in a negative matter. You lost clients and contacts, the very foundation of what you had worked so hard to build up.

_Maybe your heart just…. wasn’t in it, anymore._

Incoherent with fear and misery, you tossed and turned and lost yourself in the stillborn silence of midnights. Your career, your passion, everything you had kick-started back when you were bright-eyed and blossoming with optimism, now crumbling like a sandcastle pitted against the oncoming tide. Nobody had bothered to let you in on just how frightening adulthood was going to be if you didn’t play your cards right every time, if you couldn’t enact an immediate plan of action every time something went horribly awry.

Fear of the unknown- the paralyzing terror of fumblingly blindly into the future.

It was just so defeating, so… _humiliating_. Was this situation even salvageable, anymore? Surely there had to be something you could fall back on, some kind of backup plan that could help you wriggle free from this. Personal experience alone had taught you that there was indeed, a way out of almost everything. This couldn’t have been an exception, maybe you just weren’t looking hard enough- _trying_ hard enough to strain for a loophole you groped frantically towards.

And so here you were, hunched over the paint-smeared coffee table in naught but your sleepwear, all whilst you lowered yourself to skim through housing catalogs, fingers crossed that downsizing might give you more elbow room with finances.

You rode onto the hope too eagerly that maybe the listing you saw wasn’t an actual screw-up on the editor’s part, that it was very well intentional and that if you were theoretically, _going to call the landlord right this instant_ to get a price check on the property, that what was printed in black would still hold true.

At this point, it was well worth taking the leap. You’d already staked so much into your own career, and even the most successful of businesses and enterprises out there had to gamble on their chances to get as far as they had. Nothing in the world was without risk.

That’s a part of life too, isn’t it?

You leafed through the last of the flyers and gazed expectantly at the endearing photo of the house, index finger ghosting over the buttons.

Exhaling a breath of air you hadn’t actually realized you’d been holding, you speedily dialed the number provided.

\-----🌞-----

Luckily, the wait hadn’t stretched long enough to where your impatience had decided to go ham and pour gasoline all over the raging fire that was your inner anxiety. There was nothing in the world more nerve-wracking than the impending fear of return calls, whether it stemmed from an imminent awareness of rejection, bad news, or just… never receiving that call when you’d been anticipating it all this time.

You were blessed with the good fortune to evade that misery this once, thankfully.

The agent had responded promptly that same day, simultaneously sounding both out-of-breath and extraordinarily overjoyed that someone had made any effort at all to contact him to inquire about the small house. You did convey an interest that you would have liked to see it in person, since the picture printed on the catalog was a very pretty, flattering photograph of a fairytale cottage you’d half expect to see in those posh gardening magazines the elderly kept around.

An arrangement was efficiently made so that you were to meet him the following afternoon, where the agent would offer you a grand tour of the place and ultimately, see if the place was to your liking at all.

Judging by the address, you had an inkling that you might be urged you to drive farther out than you were typically comfortable with.

_Soleil Valley._

A cute, dreamy little countryside hamlet lost amidst an amber sea of wheat. You’d seen countless photographs and paintings of the place in a few of those pretentious art galleries you needed to schmooze up to for publicity. It seemed pleasant enough, sure, and locations like that held a special charm. It just wasn’t exactly your scene.

Not to mention that it was, in addition, _a three-hour drive_ out of town.

It was, however, the calmest three hours of driving you’d ever spent in your life, which spoke volumes considering that spending a whole three hours with a broken radio and lack of an AUX cable was… tedious, at best. It wasn’t too challenging to navigate yourself out of the dreary suburbs, even if the local soccer moms didn’t have a clear definition of what good driving was supposed to be like. The irksome traffic typically died down around the mid-afternoon in your circle of the city, so the rest of the trip was relatively stress-free.

As you journeyed down the old highway, all traces of buildings and construction sites petered out into the shifting landscape. Houses, parks, and even the bountiful orchards run by those million-dollar derby owners receded into the golden glow of the sprawling countryside, where nothing but farmland stretched as far as the eye could see.

It was staggering just how beautiful it was, actually.

The way the sun had painted the valley in tangerine hues, the sea of wheat swaying into the distant horizon, dancing beneath the capricious path of the wind… the type of scene depicted in stories told to children at night.

_It was a simple, underrated, breathtaking beauty._

Those blue-ribbon artistic renditions you’d seen on display managed to capture the essence of the valley quite accurately, though the envy of it all broiled resentfully in the pit of your stomach. _You could probably replicate something like that if you really tried._

...Of course, the place was awfully remote. The last convenience store you’d gone flying past was a good twenty-five minutes ago, located smack in the corner of a four-way intersection surrounded on either side by either more wheat or a mile’s worth of crops. You hadn’t caught glimpse of a supermarket or police station in at least an hour.

It was just… pure serenity once you’d left the omniscient cage of the city, when the baying of car honks and hollering street-folk tapered far behind you.

You rolled down the window to relish the cool air that blew through, except the billowing breeze mostly just messed up your hair. Envelopes, crumpled flyers, and even the catalog you’d brought along fluttered right off the passenger’s seat and onto the floor. There was a half-assed attempt at retrieval seeing as you really needed to double-check the address for confirmation, but your GPS was adamant and confident in guiding you to your destination.

You shot the navigation app a judgmental glare when the automated voice demanded you turn left, where the pavement gave way to a tattered gravel road winding deeper into the ocean of wheat.

“I’m trusting you,” you murmured and shook your head lightly, steering the wheel gently with a palm, the vehicle rattling in rickety motions as the tires struggled atop the foreign terrain. You never drove this thing on anything that wasn’t asphalt or concrete, before.

After a straight five minutes of driving through the honey-gold heart of the fields, you finally happened across the little white cottage perched contentedly in the center of it all. The engine went quiet and you sat there for a minute to even your breathing, psyching yourself up with a brief pep talk and smiling nervously at your weary reflection in the rear-view mirror.

It was fine, this was fine. It wasn’t like you were attending a job interview. You’re literally just here to look at a house, say yay or nay, and then split. That’s it. It _really_ didn’t need to be this difficult for you. With an insecure wink and a long sigh, you nudged the car door open with a foot and braced yourself against the crisp coolness of the evening.

The soft grass rustled beneath your heels as you stepped out of the car, staring in awe at the untouched landscape with mesmeric wonder. You took in a deep, contented breath and pondered if it wasn’t too late for you to bust out the sketchpad and start an outline of the view.

Maybe another time.

Jogging lightly up the weathered trail, you narrowly tripped upon the weeds, daisies, and small sprigs of grass that had long since reclaimed the worn path. The breeze picked up from behind you, distant wind chimes singing a soft melody in the clear air as it pulled you closer, beckoning through the wheat stalks. There across the lively field, just beyond the thin dirt trail that ebbed deeper into the bosom of the valley, you spotted your contact waving you down.

...Well, flailing was a more accurate way to describe it.

He was a portly man, stuffed into an irritating eyesore of a pink double-breasted suit. The weather was brisk and luscious, though the gentleman was sweating profusely in his clothes and padded pointlessly at the perspiration dotting his wide forehead. He bore the ugliest comb-over you’d ever seen in your life. Either way, gawking at your host wasn’t really going to be the best way to net yourself a good deal.

Spurring yourself to look anywhere but his tragic choice of hairstyle, you plastered an award-winning smile and greeted him with a sprightly disposition.

“You must be the kid who wants to see this ol’ place,” the agent strode over, holding out his sweaty hand and clamping down on yours like a vice.

Kid? _You were a grown adult; the hell did he mean by that?_

“The names’ Ronaldo Pizza, one of the few realtors ‘round this charming community,” he spoke in a southern drawl.

With a last name like that, everything had suddenly made sense. Like it was an epiphany.

“Oh,” you unintentionally mouthed. “Is that your real last na-”

“Yes it is,” he interrupted shortly, already on the same wavelength.

You don’t begrudge him for the reaction, really. Heaven only knows how often he got that one thrown his way.

“You sure as hell chose a weird place to live, kiddo. Nothin’ but catfolk ‘round those parts. Good people, ‘o course. Just ain’t nothin’ to do at a place like this.” As if to prove his point, Ronaldo made a wide motion with his outstretched arms towards the landscape.

“Nothing at all?” you followed up.

“Yeah. ‘s one of the smallest villages in this region, so I heard. Got a population of a thousand somethin’ at most, and that’s if you’re goin’ where all the hustle ‘n bustle is. Otherwise, it’s almost in the middle ‘o goddamn nowhere,” he nodded, advancing towards the house in a jolly gait.

The entryway to the front lawn was adorned lovingly with a rose archway- sans the _actual_ roses. The yard had become dominated entirely by an expansive and colorful range of flowers, save for a few gnarled, persistent weeds. Oak-leaf geraniums dappled the peeling walls in jovial bursts, as heads of wheat had sprouted so close to the cottage that they lightly kissed the faded white of the worn picket fence. An enchanting wall of bright yellow roses and their thorny brambles had overgrown one corner of the garden, lacing through the dilapidated lattice wall. Draped gloriously by the creaky gate were tall spikes of pink gladiolus, brushing softly against your clothes as you trotted past the broken gate.

The garden was perfumed by the tangy and dizzyingly sweet scent of nectar. The evening was light and breezy, not cold enough to make you shiver, but not so warm that it was stuffy. The lively garden was seemingly trapped in an eternal state of summer, with the way swallowtail butterflies flit to and fro between every speck of color. The flowers had been tenderly cared for, even if the house creaked and moaned from neglect. As you floated idly to the front door, you noticed a familiar fruit-bearing tree poised proudly beside the leaning fence.

_Was someone habitually coming down here to check on them?_

“What kind of tree is that?” You began with a conversational trill, ogling the view.

“Dunno,” the porky man responded with an unhelpful huff, clearly uninterested.

“O-Oh,” your lips pursed into a thin line, disheartened that the topic was cut prematurely.

“Now, there are a few things I oughta tell you ‘bout this place,” he proceeded cooly, as though the previous exchange had never taken place. “This here’s a forgotten beekeeper’s cottage, though the apiaries all got cleaned out a few months after the last guy here moved out. The garden over yonder is a pretty big one, perfect if you’re the type that likes to throw ‘em huge barbeques. ‘Cept you know, you’re a little lackin’ in the neighbor department. Think the closest person lives a lil’ up that hill.” He pointed over the tilted garden wall, where you followed his gaze but met only an off-color cluster of bushes.

“It took them that long to clean up after he left?” You whistled.

“Well, it was clear he wasn’t comin’ back. We put up ads for another beekeeper since the agency really wanted to hang onto this place, but nobody applied. They wound up just forgettin’ bout this place, since it’s so damn far from everywhere else that nobody in the right mind wanted to live here. To be real with ya- this cottage was abandoned for about four… maybe five years. Inside is probably gonna look like shit, kid.”

If that wasn't a mediocre sales pitch, then you didn't know what was.

To exemplify this, the door had to be forced open with impact since the rusted handle refused to budge. The entire cottage shook and groaned from the intrusion, irritating great puffs of swirling dust. You covered your mouth quickly with your hands and maneuvered inside.

“C’mon, lemme show you ‘round the place 'fore it gets dark.” he urged, beckoning to you with mild irritation.

_That wasn't totally ominous, or anything._

The splintered floorboards creaked miserably beneath your shoes. Everything was draped beneath an obscenely thick coat of dust, soft tendrils of light trickling inside from the cracked windows. The decrepit living room was spacious and wide, with a bay window facing the right-hand side of the overgrown yard. You pictured the many ways that could be refurbished, maybe add a few cushions or pillows to make it a cozy hangout on rainy days- though you didn’t have nearly enough furniture to properly decorate a room this massive.

“Got a bit ‘o bad news for ya. While you can set up your wifi up here ‘n play with most of ya fancy toys, the reception here is downright awful. Don’t be expectin’ your cell phone to help bail you out in case of an emergency. Landline works just fine o’ course.”

That was… actually pretty abysmal. Landline phones were pretty cheap to access, sure, but now your phone was rendered obsolete save for those time-sinking apps you like to check in with. Hm. You were going to have to think about that gimmick.

He rallied you into the kitchen which, had been in as many tattered pieces as your life, shards of glass and abandoned dishware littering the squeaky floor. Coffee stains and scorch marks etched the ancient stovetop while insects wiggled and squirmed beneath the safety of the sink to escape detection. What made you do a double-take, however, was the oven. Not just any ordinary oven, either, but one of those fancy rustic wood-fired types that cost over five grand in the market. It hadn’t seen proper care in ages, but it was remarkably intact. Maybe you could dust it off a bit and sell it for some primo cash.

_Or make some bomb-ass pizza with it._

“The good thing ‘bout this hideous place at least, is that they’re rentin’ it out for dirt cheap. In fact, the agency is so desperate for a new tenant that they’re willing to foot the bill for repair costs if ya wanna clean up the place. And uh… trust me. This place needs a shitton of work,” he chortled, parading out the kitchen from a side door back into the heart of the house.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout electricity, cuz they tested the wires last night 'fore you showed up and called. Everything still runs, and the place draws water just fine like every other house ‘round here,” he boasted with a clap of his hands. The sound echoed sharply across the cottage, bouncing off the walls.

The stairs threatened to give way upon the first instance of tension. You didn’t trust the integrity of the building enough to follow behind Ronaldo in close proximity, but it’d look rude if you didn’t stick close. As if you were insinuating that the stairs weren’t strong enough to support both you and him. The doorframe of the forlorn bedroom caught in the gallant light of the falling sun, with a second bathroom on the opposite end of the second-floor hallway.

“Yup, ya got two bedrooms and two bathrooms. One of each on either floor, though the master bedroom is gonna be downstairs. Guess the upper one is good if you got a roommate movin’ in, or got a kid comin’ along the way. Good family house. It’s a damn shame they let it fall into disrepair. Wouldn’t be givin’ it away for that price if anyone bothered.” As per the usual, Ronaldo proceeded with as much professionalism one could reasonably expect this deep into the tour.

All in all, you'd seen everything there was to see in a little under than an hour. It had already grown dark outside, and the stalks rustled restlessly when you scampered back outdoors, waxy leaves whispering to the spellbound sky. Cotton-candy clouds of pastel pink melted into the sinking sun, little white stars wheeling in the eventide canvas of the airy twilight.

“Now, I’m gonna go ahead ‘n level with ya. This place? ‘S a real piece ‘o shit,” Ronaldo turned to you with a skeptical frown, rapping his knuckle against the door.

“Ah,” you replied simply, as if you didn't already have a clue.

“Now if you want, I think we got a lil’ more time, I can show you another house or two a tad further into the valley. They’re a hell of a lot nicer than this shack, I can tell you that much. Ain’t even gonna need to bother fixin’ it up-”

By some sheer whim, your eyes gravitated up towards the grassy hill where the wildflowers and sweet pink honeysuckle hugged the chipped spaces of the fence. The baby-blue house of your one and only neighbor roosted blissfully against the howling wind, the windows lighting up one by one, lace curtains drawing to reveal a small, cat-like child pressing their sleeved hands against the glass as they peered eagerly outside.

It was difficult to parse their exact appearance from where you watched, though what enraptured you were their eyes. Brilliant, rounded eyes with thin onyx slits, glimmering in the color of the wheat fields. Gentle and trusting, those eyes, scanning the lonely view of the abandoned cottage before ultimately, their gaze met yours. You were locked into the child’s stare, petrified by a jarring revelation that knocked you silly.

Had you seen them somewhere, before?

Panic, exhilaration- was there a word in the human language that could describe the shocking sense of familiarity felt when you saw this child? A sense of comfort, familial affection- a bittersweet sadness burning in the back of your throat. Somehow, that had been the catalyst.

You fluttered back to the agent, a whirlwind of movement as you met their gaze evenly with a determined, resolute smile.

“I’ll take it,” you interjected, having long forgotten that they'd been droning on this entire time.

“...What?” Ronaldo balked, the papers tucked beneath his arms scattering to the ground. While he scrambled pitifully to pick them up, the smile on your face had only grown.

_“The house. I’ll take it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaand here I go again, impulsively making new Oneshot fics! Although this one has been in my head just as long as the others, truthfully speaking. I was just never really confident about executing it, but I think now that I'm in a much better place mentally, it's a good time for me to start experimenting with new works!! I'm going for something different this time around, focusing more on the slice-of-life genre since all I ever really do is... either angst or really awful romance. 
> 
> Quick note about the catfolk; I'm not sure if it was explicitly stated they are the dominant species on Niko's planet (which is distinctly not earth according to Niko), so the reader's race and appearance is entirely up to you, of course! I have to wing a few things since the game is very lenient with details, and I wound up giving Niko's hometown a simple name. It's really just like that, sometimes.
> 
> This was incredibly fun for me to write though, and I hope you'll give this story a shot! Now, without further ado... here's your flower lesson for the chapter!
> 
> Oak-Leaf geraniums- symbolizes true friendship! a lot of these grew around my apartment complex where I grew up, for some reason?
> 
> Yellow Rose- while seen as symbolism for jealousy, yellow roses can also represent joy, 'welcome back', 'i remember you'!
> 
> Pink Gladiolus- the pink variation of this flower represents motherly love and compassion, though as a whole, the gladiolus symbolized remembrance. Fun fact: gladiolus are also sometimes called 'sword lilies'!
> 
> Honeysuckle- very fragrant and sweet-smelling, honeysuckles represent emotional sweetness and affection.  
>    
> See you next time, kiddos!


	2. Fresh-Baked Lemon Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, lemon bread is very easy to make and it one of the greatest things I have ever had the privilege to put in my mouth. I would highly recommend unless you're like, allergic???

The plans to settle the move had been arranged that same week, much to the vocal displeasure of those who frantically tried talking you out of the decision.

Your family had revolted initially, though they came upon the swift realization that there wasn’t really much they could do in the way of influence- not when they lived halfway _across the country._ They’d kept pitching in offers to take you back in if something ever went wrong, mindfully supporting your pursuits from a safe distance, albeit with those doubtful smiles of theirs.

The big move wasn’t all that out of your comfort zone, but it apparently was exorbitantly out of _theirs_ for reasons that went beyond you. It was a risk that impacted nobody but yourself, and for some unutterable reason, they’d made a much bigger deal out of it than you were expecting. They stood witness to your floundering a mile upwind from the damage and never uttered a word when you needed actual help, but of course, the moment you decided to reach out about something you were sure of, they felt the compulsion to pull out the red card.

Sometimes, the only person who knew what’s truly best for you was going to be none other than yourself. There was neither room nor time left to argue about anything. You’d already made your choice and you were going to stick with it, consequences be damned. You could pack up everything all by your lonesome and manage at least that much.

Though admittedly, it sure wouldn’t have _killed anyone_ to offer a helping hand.

Well, things were just like this, sometimes.

...Though _maybe_ a good cleaning session and a bit of organizing had been thoroughly overdue, now that you frowned down upon catastrophe that was your cluttered studio.

Hoarding was never really something you’d been very guilty of in your mind’s eye, though you couldn’t really set aside the reality of it for much longer now that the evidence was so blatantly present.   

Glossing over the amassed arsenal of budget paint tubes, bristled brushes, and what must have been at least a year’s worth of unused watercolor paper stacked in the corner of the studio, you began to suspect that this nagging urge of yours to pounce on every deal you see just _might_ have played a potential hand in how poorly you were managing, financially speaking.

You boxed them up all the same, though with less deftness than the pricier kits and sets you’d spent weeks saving up for, as those took priority over almost everything else. The majority of those appliances were fortunately replaceable, at the cost of wildly inconsistent pricing that you frankly, didn’t make much of an effort to keep up with. Some were steeper than others, while the rest- you could never possibly hope to afford twice. Especially not after this whole transaction with the house.

You were tempted to sell off your old music equipment online the day after you’d checked out the house, to at least catch up on the money you’d spent. None of it had seen actual use in over a year, and more often than not, functioned as an unnecessarily bitter reminder of the blind-alley childhood dream that herded you into a pitfall. One that took you _years_ to crawl out of. Some of the local coffee shops and nightclubs downtown still had you pinned by name, commenting as you walked past on how much they claimed to miss your singing voice.

It’s just that you just never... _got anywhere_ with it. It was fun and fulfilling to make a game of writing songs with the same six chords over and over, but it was nothing anyone else took seriously enough for you to warrant pushing it as a career. If anything, they were all desolate reminders of another past failure that was still snapping at your heels.

But the mocking jeers of those days had long since ebbed away, and now there was nothing for it but to accept things as they were and carry on with your head held high. No more running, no more petty grievances over the chances you flubbed.

Be that as it may, the memories sleepily followed you into the cargo trailer, buried beneath the perilous mountain that was your supply cache.

As an overzealous precautionary measure, the high-end utensils and canvases accompanied you directly into the car, either stowed away tidily in the trunk or propped up safely in the back. Your passenger seat was reserved exclusively for the old acoustic guitar you hadn’t played in over a year- your old best friend that you never planned to part with, even if the world set itself ablaze and your life depended on it; and your favorite plush, Toothy, a rotund stuffed whale shark adorned in a cutesy, intricately-sewn sailor suit.

There were no sad, melodramatic partings or overcomplicated goodbyes as emulated in two AM soap operas with friends, though that certainly didn’t demean their continued support and sympathetic smiles. They sent you off happily and thrust armfuls of gifts and good-luck presents upon you, most of which made their way into the trunk, save for a pack of high-end chocolates that you’d practically been inhaling. At the rate you’d been burning through them, they weren’t going to survive the evening.

Right, well… this was it. This was  _actually_ it.

Settling uneasily into the driver’s seat, your fingernails clicked against the steering wheel as you lost yourself in the view of the infinite sky, bathing for just a moment longer in the temporary tranquility of the front seat. When you felt ready enough to stomach the action, you ignited the engine and backed slowly out of the driveway, merging into the oncoming traffic as the world went on with the daily races, indifferent to your plight.

Hulking imposingly in the rearview mirror was the sickly-painted pewter of the complex you’d spent too many long years in, disappearing rapidly into the distant shroud of the city as though a mirage. You blew the omniscient skyscrapers one last kiss through the reflection as your sped along the highway, eager to bid the place farewell.

...Well, so you _might_ miss the place a little, yeah, but that's more of the inevitable aftermath of Stockholm Syndrome rather than sentimentality or an _actual_ attachment. You definitely weren’t going to miss the obnoxious neighbors who kept you up until 3:45 in the morning, the ones who practiced the trumpet for so long that it felt like your brain was going to start leaking from your ears.

Suffice to say, you were ecstatic about leaving the place for numerous reasons. Every good voyage into the unknown would be marked with nervous jitters and recurring bouts of what-if scenarios, possibly even regrets; but that only made the path you chose all the more worthwhile to traverse.

What made you irreconcilably anxious above all else, was the _act of letting go_.

Of the familiarity of the city, of your clockwork routine, of the very _life you lived._  You were essentially detaching from everything you were accustomed to in favor of drifting into new territory, gambling on this small chance and praying that a stroke of luck would find its way to you. It was terrifying, yes- but oh-so-scintillating to acknowledge that you were brave enough to take this first step.

This was your cue to turn over a new leaf,  that second chance to take back control of what should have, no- what was _always_ yours. Not many people in this world were blessed with that kind of opportunity. You were going to make the most of it, even if it killed you.

You clutched the steering so tightly that your knuckles had drained of all color. On top of that, you’d been blazing down the highway about twenty miles above the appropriate speed limit. Spacing out behind the wheel again- that was a literal accident just waiting to happen. That was a habit you were going to have to curb eventually, though you weren’t all that sure just how much driving you were going to be doing in Soleil Valley. You hadn’t thought to do the research and search up how far the closest town was, even though, come on- _you seriously should have._

You evened out your breathing and focused on the long road ahead, turning up the volume a few notches higher and blasting your favorite jams from a playlist you left shuffled for when you worked on pieces- such was the boon when you didn’t actually forget to bring the AUX cable.

The freeway was devoid of people, leaving you cruising along the lonely road as lazy sunbeams glinted off the mellowed fronds of wheat. Not for the first time that afternoon, you admired that the weather today was impossibly pleasant.

It must have been all nerves last time, because this time around the drive had flown by in the blink of an eye.

Careening down the corner back onto the dirt road, the trailer attached to your car clunked noisily as it rocked in violent motions, clouds of dust billowing high enough that it was viewable from the side mirrors. You winced and clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, slowing down the pace down as not to stir up more dust, poking a cautious head through the open window to inspect the tires. It looked fine from this angle, if not a bit mud-caked, though that was something you could fix later. You hoped that the friend who loaned the trailer to you wasn’t going to be wanting it back anytime in the foreseeable future.

That was going to be a six-hour commitment that you weren’t all that excited to tackle.

Though many insistent things nagged and weighed heavily upon your mind, the familiar white of the small cottage smiled happily in the distance, lovingly and patiently waiting for its new owner at the gentle incline of the lush hill. It was just as delightful at it had been the week before, with its verdant leaves of winding ivy quivering against the calm caress of the spring breeze, framing the house protectively with its curling vines.

A genuine storybook house, and it was yours to keep- if you did things in just the right way. Careful managing, extra stinginess with spending (which was practically a given) and a bit more networking could ensure that your new life would go off without a hitch.

Reaching your destination, the car purred to a quiet stop. You slung the black guitar case over a shoulder, kept Toothy tucked beneath one arm and lightly nudged the car door shut with a swing of your hips, approaching the house decisively and ducking under the withered archway.

The flowers bowed at your feet, blooming sweetly in all the splendid colors of the early spring, revitalized by the seasonal showers and the rich soil. Distant echoes of the wind chimes reached your ears yet again, weaving a spirited melody that serenaded you from farther up the hill. At that moment, the same beckoning gale blazed across the field to embrace you with an enthusiastic gust, the garden exploding in a cacophony of sound,  leaves rustling an aria of joy.

It was as if the very earth beneath your feet grew delighted; overjoyed that you came back and in turn, cried out to the sky, praising in song-

_'Welcome home!'_

You breathed in, unfurling. You fished in your pocket for the keys to the cottage, struggling to insert the thing properly for a century or two until the door clicked gingerly, ghosting open. Met with the strange, comforting scent known only to aged wood, the floors creaked just as badly upon your weight as it had last week, though you resigned to accept this cottage as it was and ventured inside.

Still, that sound was unconditionally going to become an infinitely creepier nuisance at night, likely to haunt you for the first week until you get that whole... renovation thing sorted out.

Ronaldo, or “Mr. Pizza” as you rather enjoyed calling him, hadn’t bothered to actually clue you in on where exactly it was that you needed to go, or who to speak to if you wanted the place refurbished. You had the paperwork proof and documents from the agency necessary to get it squared away, but otherwise weren’t given any precise directions on how to accomplish this yourself. As far as you were aware, the possibility of repairs simply… _existed._ Nothing more. It was within reach and in concept was possible, though a lot more of the key information was missing.

Your standards were low to begin with, but man, you still felt disappointed at how this was handled. Regardless, you thought it best not to complain too much and refrained from making uncouth complaints if it didn’t get under your skin that much. All things considered, you did well getting this far in the first place.

If you wanted something done right, you have to do it yourself.

According to Mr. Pizza (you grinned a little stupidly every time you thought that, immature as it was) the electricity had been switched on roughly two days ago and the water was set to run just fine, the heater itself supposedly tested first-hand by a maintenance guy you didn’t know existed prior.

Now, you were going to have to get your hands dirty with the gruesome work of lugging everything through the door.

Mr. Pizza did suggest that you could move larger furnishings through the veranda door, sectioned on the right-hand side of the house inside of the kitchen, but had the foresight to warn you that the glass sliding door had been busted and that the moment you choose to open it, it was 100% without a doubt, going to be stuck and would need excessive force to be jerked back in place. That option was reserved for extreme circumstances for when any of the adamant pieces you owned didn’t exactly feel like squeezing through the front door.

You deposited the guitar and trusty Toothy the foot of the creaky staircase, giving him a reassuring pat on the dorsal fin before marching out the door, hop-skipping down the porch steps to the cargo trailer, nearly tumbling over over a malignant weed and foiling it’s wicked plan to claim your life.

You could move the easels and drawers up on the second-floor bedroom- that’d be your new studio, and on days where the weather was temperate and the wind wasn’t too strong, you could always relocate to the garden and maybe let the creative juice flow there.

There was _no way in hell_ you were trusting the staircase to support the weight of both you and the queen-size mattress, so you’ll happily make your nest on the bottom floor to spare yourself the trouble of more strenuous physical labor. You could throw all the cuter pillows by the bay window, maybe press the radiator up against the wall and make that be a cozy hangout spot.

This was it, now.

_This was home._

The moment that thought pattered against your mind like spring raindrops, a small, gentle flash of brown and purple darted away into the whispering wheat stalks, disappearing into the ocean of gold, a scarf streaming behind them in the wind.

 

\-----🌞-----

 

Your arms were _indescribably_ sore after the bulk of the furniture had been stationed in their respective locations. The hell that was your lower back began wailing for sweet mercy once you’d dragged the coffee table through the door, one of the legs scraping off a rotting chunk of the doorframe. A little too self-indulgently, you mused that it was _theoretically okay to break as much of the house as you pleased_ if you were just going to get the entire place renovated. It seemed too good to be true, despite not having any idea on whether or not contractors were a thing in Soleil Valley.

...Well, fine. The place was remote, _yeah,_ but that didn’t have to mean everyone here was a country bumpkin who lived like total hicks. Someone around here clearly knew what they’re doing, if all of the wiring was kept intact after consecutive years of neglect and disuse.

Unable to push yourself any more than you already had, you collapsed into an exhausted heap atop the sofa-bed you inherited from your grandmother. You sniffed deeply, burying your head into the cushions. It was an old, well-loved thing, torn in places by that fat Maine Coon of hers that never quite seemed to approve of you, with melted crayon stains and faded marker drawings of bunnies scrawled on the arms- they were the fancy scented Misa Flank markers  you received for your 7th birthday, because you remembered with visceral accuracy just how much you loved the hot cocoa scent, and mourned for literal _days_ when you lost it. You practically grew up with the thing, and nobody in the family had any arguments when she wrote in her will that she wanted you specifically to have it, and nobody else.

Most people in the world usually get jewelry or fancy trinkets as a memento of a loved one when they pass- but you got a couch. 

...Hey, you weren't going to complain. 

You rested your eyes for only a moment, aching muscles uncoiling in ecstasy. Feeling blindly around the sofa for the TV remote, you knew intuitively which button to press to switch on the power and change channels, and instinctively flipped to your favorite program. Displayed was a rerun of an episode you didn’t care much for, but you settled for the background noise and flopped over on your side, drawing your legs up to your chest tiredly, swaddling yourself up like a burrito. Easing yourself into the pillows, your hands caught in the handmade quilts you never slept without, sewn with fierce crimson camellias and lively hyacinths.  

Hours had passed when the nostalgic scent of the evening crept upon you. When you’d woken from your impromptu nap, the sun had long since winked out of the sky, bathing you in jet black. The cold slammed into you with the force of a freight train, bringing you just enough discomfort so that the aggressively persistent darkness ranked second place in terms of unpleasantness. The flickering drone of the television was all that separated you from what may as well have been the otherwise inescapable void.

You threw the cracked windows behind you a weary look, eyes weakly scanning for any semblance of light. No lamp posts, no porch lights from neighbors that didn’t exist- there was nothing at all. The television's glow emanating from your house had been the only star floating amidst a dark sea.

Both unnerved and incredibly cold, you hoisted yourself up and felt around for your phone, carrying it with you as a light source as the sound of bare feet against timeworn wood became swallowed by the agonized groans of the house.

The kitchen, which you _refused_ to touch until the nasty bug problem situated itself after the remodeling, was somehow even colder than the living room, as if any and all heat was being sucked out by a vacuum. You suspected a window or two was broken that you hadn't noticed during the tour.

You were on the prowl for a light switch. Those hadn't been appropriately replaced, and you knew personally from your old workplace that fluorescent bulbs have at minimum, a thousand-hour lifespan. Several years would impact an unused lamp very little, and you guessed that the maintenance people needed so have some other way to gauge whether or not power still coursed through the place.

...Out of nowhere, it occurred to you just then how hungry you were.

Without the worry of movers to catch up to, you stopped by a Dawson’s and munched on an egg salad sandwich with some lemon tea for lunch, but that was basically it. You could always peek in the mini-fridge and rustle something up, but you weren’t even positive that the stove still worked. Not to mention that there wasn’t a lot of food you brought with you in the first place since most of it was perishable.

Guided by the light of your cell phone, you took but a single step into the kitchen, heard what must have been _multiple_ small entities scuttling and crawling about the floor, and immediately moonwalked out.

 _Nope. Nuh-uh._ **_Not_ ** _happening._

If something, _anything_ touched your foot while it was dark, you wouldn’t have time to so much as scream before you dropped dead, soul doing a backflip out of your mortal body without any desire to return.

Cool, so...  starving. That was definitely a thing.

Not a very fun alternative to being touched by an amalgamate beast in the darkness, but everyone had fears they can’t quite wrench themselves away from, no matter how vehemently they try.

A loud and sudden knocking scared the ever-loving daylights out of you, much so that your phone clattered noisily upon the ground as you struggled to recover from the shock. For what possible reason would anyone have to justify visiting when it was this dark out? If it was a robber or, _oh God- a murderer;_  who would even find you in a location this far out?

You swallowed hard, reaching back for your phone and inching towards the door. With floorboards this loud, sneaking had clearly been out of the question and must have evidently alerted whoever was outside that someone was actually home, if the hushed voices hadn’t been any indicator.

 _“See? Someone’s home!”_ A small, exceedingly tender voice piped up, one so painfully familiar that it shot sparks right through your marrows.

 _“It’s so dark in there. The poor thing, I wonder if-”_ A second voice began, though they were instantly stunned silent when you answered the door, draped in three layers of tacky floral-patterned quilts and brandishing a cell phone as though it were a knife.

It was a Felidae woman and who was presumably her child; people whom you’d never refer personally as _‘catfolk’_ because you knew that was a harmful slur, like the equivalent of calling a human a monkey. You knew better than that; were raised better than that. The two had triggered a porch light that you never knew you’d owned or even worked at all, gawking down upon the two as moths twirled and danced around the casing of the lamp.

In front of you was a middle-aged woman, perhaps in her late thirties or approaching the early forties, with lightly-tanned skin and captivating amber eyes, toffee-brown locks tied up in a side ponytail thrown in front of her shoulder, laced with daffodil-shaped clips. She wore a button-up blouse and large, flowing yellow apron skirt that rustled lightly with the dusk breeze. Her child pinched the back of her dress, concealing themselves behind her.

Ears perked up, she broke the silence with a calm, cheerful voice.

“Good evening,” she began, maternal smile lined with pearly white fangs that gleamed in the dull light.

A child in a wide-brimmed hat with cat-eared protrusions stepped shyly to the side from behind her, looking up at you with wonder and amazement- as one would admire a work of art. When the honey-gold of their eyes met yours, they bowed their head just slightly. The familiar child boasted short purple hair, long, baggy sleeves that went past their wrists, and a warm, periwinkle scarf that swathed across their tiny shoulders.

Vaguely acknowledging that you had been greeted, you stuttered back an awkward greeting and zeroed in on the picnic basket she supported on her right arm, the lid covered by a cutesy red-and-white gingham piece of cloth. It smelled heavenly.

The woman must have caught you looking as she laughed benevolently, her voice as radiant and clear as the summer sky.

“This is for you, actually! It’s our little way of welcoming you to Soleil Valley, even though it’s just our two little houses until the next town over.” She nudged the basket in your direction, urging for you to accept.

You were completely speechless.

“I, um… wow. Thank you. I-I don’t really know what to say,” you responded thickly, slowly peeling back the cloth to peer inside. Inside rested a loaf with a yellow, spongy exterior, drizzled with icing glazed with absolute perfection, practically begging to be eaten.

It was by far the most tantalizing loaf of lemon bread you’d had the privilege of smelling in your entire life.

Unthinkingly, you held out your hand and introduced yourself, returning her greeting with an enthralling smile. The child behind her uttered a small gasp the moment they heard your name. While the reaction hadn’t escaped you, the mother either hadn’t noticed at all, or simply couldn’t be bothered to pay it any heed.

“There’s no need, dear. Please, just call me Marigold,” she bowed her head, a tentative hand rubbing circles atop one of the child’s sleeves.

“...I’m Niko,” the child squeaked when it was clearly their cue, staring at you with such ferocity that it made you twitch. “It’s nice to s- meet you,” they corrected with immense guilt in their eyes.

Niko,  _Niko_.

The name suited them well- so well that you couldn’t have possibly imagined any other name that would have suited them best.

Grinning softly, you bent over and held out your hand in an unassuming gesture.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Niko. I hope that us three can be good neighbors.” Your response was earnest and good-natured, coming straight from the heart. Niko stared at your hand for a moment, as if unable to decipher whether or not it was real, if it was really, _truly_ there, then as if enraptured, took your hand in theirs with tiny fingers and gave it a nervous shake.

It was a bizarrely nostalgic gesture, as though you were greeting an old, long-lost friend that you hadn't caught up with in years.

“We live in that house just up the hill! We’d been anticipating your arrival all this week, ever since Niko told me that they saw someone looking at it with one of the realtors. We didn’t think anyone would ever move in here again, not after the last gentleman left. It was an awful shame, too. It was nice taking care of the bees, oh, they used to make the most _exquisite_ honey that went great with the bread I used to bake, I still-” The woman named Marigold spoke with talkative hospitality, though she caught herself midway through rambling.

Clearing her throat, she patted down her apron and corrected her posture.

“I’m terribly, _terribly_ sorry if I bothered you while it was this late at night. I was content to give you your present tomorrow afternoon, but Niko insisted that you were home and deserved it while it was freshly baked.” Her gaze flicked marginally towards the dark interior of the cottage with a doting, if not slightly distressed admonishment.

“I forgot to plug in my lamp,” you blurted sloppily, flagging down said object unhelpfully in the darkness.

“Oh,” Marigold replied with an understanding trill, despite being unable to see what you were waving to. “Well, I hope you situated yourself alright, regardless! You can always come to us if you need help for anything,” she nodded sagely, clasping her hands together.

“That’s very generous of you to offer, thank you. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.” You glanced down at the picnic basket, stomach growling viciously. “...Um, would you like some? I know it’s dark, but I can find some light, set up the couch and-”

“Oh no, that’s quite alright,” The mother shook her head, politely declining the offer. “I’ve left a pot pie in the oven, I really shouldn’t stray too long from the house. I really am glad I stopped by, though! It’s such a joy to finally meet you,” hummed Marigold, delicately taking one of your hands in hers.

Dumbstruck, you let out a pointless laugh and found yourself content to wait before she let go, Niko tugging impatiently on her skirt.

“Right, I’ll leave you to it! Do tell me if you enjoyed the bread or not- I’ll be glad to bake you another loaf if it isn’t to your liking! The recipe has yet to be perfected, after all.” She said soothingly, voice steeped in maternal warmth. “You’re more than welcome to keep the basket, too, we have many more.”

“T-That isn’t necessary to do, but thanks again for the present. If you’re okay with me keeping it, um, I’d be more than happy too. It’s very nice,” you stammered, unsure if that was a stupid thing to say or not. It looked hand-made, though, and was woven with commendable care.

Marigold clapped her hands and excused herself, guiding Niko across the overgrown lawn and vanishing into the darkness.

As you drifted away back into the old house, you just barely seized the sight of Niko throwing a look over their shoulder, looking up at you again with that very same wordless reverence before melting into the night alongside their mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic actually got some attention which... I was not expecting???? Not bad, given that the fanbase seems to have mostly declined, ahaha. This fic suddenly spiked in views the past few weeks, which actually shocked me a little. Incidentally, that whale plush that Reader owns is super cute- I actually own one just like it! Look at this [cutie!](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1145/4632/products/21318f19e0074e46d7b553ccf4fea718_grande.jpg?v=1523452302)
> 
> So yup, I had to assign Niko's mother a name since... it would have been repetitive and awkward if I kept trying to dodge it, and I'm incapable of pulling it off eloquently at my current writing level. I felt like 'Marigold' was very fitting for her, I hope everyone isn't too displeased by it! She wasn't given a canon name, after all. A number of details in this game are ambiguous.
> 
> Not-so-fun facts: Misa Flank is an obvious play on 'Lisa Frank'. For those of you who don't know who that is, I believe... that's the name of the woman who started this brand of super colorful, super feminine and whimsical school supplies and coloring books. I guess my bias leaked in there since I grew up with her stuff! As for 'Dawson', it's a play on 'Lawson', which is an insanely popular convenience store branch here in Japan! I think almost as much as 7-11, which is a much bigger deal here than it was in North America. 
> 
> Without further ado, here's your flower lesson for the day!
> 
> Camellias- stands for passion, faithfulness, and longevity. In Japanese culture, it symbolizes divinity and is perceived as a sacred flower. And while I can't quite find a source for this, I'm also told by my grandmother, an obsessive gardener, that it's seen in some circles also as bad luck as the entire flower is known to drop off the tree instead of the petals shedding one by one. She said something about it being synonymous to "having one's head decapitated", which is... creepy. Not that it's relevant to the symbolism, just a fun, not-so-fun gruesome fact. 
> 
> Hyacinth- Represents sincerity, though the most common variation, purple, is known to symbolize sorrow. It's advised that you avoid putting them in bouquets for joyous occasions for... obvious reasons.
> 
> Daffodil- Represents good fortune and cheerfulness, a daffodil bulb blooming in early spring is said to represent good wealth you'll experience later in the year. Others say that the flower symbolizes a warning as not to be careless with finances. Take a good guess what MC struggles with most?
> 
> Thanks for supporting my newest work, and I'll see you sweethearts next time!!


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